Sometimes people place a lot of value on emotion and emotional expression just for the sake of such expression. Somewhere in my mind is a place where I’m gracious enough to concede to the idea of raw value in emotional expression; elsewhere in more labyrinthine quarters where I dwell in solitude, hidden behind the mazes of philosophical explorations of my adolescent and young adult self, I’m far more miserly.
Emotion itself is an eruptive epiphenomon of the cosmic forces of creation, crafted and molded and mixed for billions of years in the cauldron of physics and biology. We have survived in our countless forms through our ancestors to this point, and our feelings should pay homage to the creation that we are in that they should themselves create.
This what art is about. Art isn’t just about expression; it’s about the continuity of creation, the amazing process sparking before our eyes in slow-motion. We are it; we are the process. And we have control, unlike other forms of the cosmos. We can decide how best to create with our emotions, how best to press the button marked “continue.”
We can become worse, or we can become better; we can support the system of enslavement, or we can free ourselves and all beings, if only we are willing.
Emotion and expression have to be more than simply being an end in themselves, lest our suffering be for naught, and lest our happiness rape us with its inherent emptiness. If these things indeed have value, though- if they are part of something greater, whatever that greater reality may be (the orgasms of gods or the dreams of aliens or the dances of unicorns or the will of stars), then all is not lost. The direst situation can be have value in that it can be redeemed. The most painful loss can be a secret moment of salvation.
The reasonable mind will never be satisfied, for it does not deal in the ware of satisfaction; it does not connect to the current where satisfaction is found, at least not normally; here the divorce case has been settled, and satisfaction and reason have moved into two different homes and pay two different mortages and have two separate families.
But it is as if they divorced long ago, when we were children, and ah! We never could conceive that the satisfaction of life could exist for those of us who are lost in the maze of what we might think is too much logic but is really the record played in our brain caught in a particular loop it has deemed worthy. The blasted record should be smashed, and our brain freed from its own self-delusion!
Let the art flow. Let life flow. Step into the ocean and out of the sands. Let your expression be the currency by which you create good for others.